Perpetual Motion
by Xenia van Hausen
Summary: The years throughout, since the colonial years to the present time, America and England had never truly been able to sever all ties. From one thing to another, they end up back in the life of the other. A story of love, rebellion, reluctance, and renewal.
1. Prologue

May 4, 2012

New story here! It's going to be a long, multi-chaptered fic as I try to explore the changing relationship between America and England. Plus, a rare take on India's role in England's life and how America truly wasn't all that important during his colonial years; India _was_ considered "the crown jewel." However, it'll be more of the effects on America and England more than anything.

**Summary:** The years throughout; since the colonial years to the present time, America and England had never truly been able to sever all ties. From one thing to another, they end up back in the life of the other. A story of love, rebellion, reluctance, and renewal.

* * *

**Letting You Go; Letting Me Leave**

_...but somehow, we both wound up in the same place..._

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_.1637._

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He sat silently on the large boulder, staring out at the vast expanse, as a soft breeze brushed against the tips of the tall, greenish-yellow grass, creating ripples along the prairie. His blue eyes, round and dominant on his childish features, shone in the sun's light, warm and comforting on his small figure. A shadow of a smile graced his peachy lips, an expression of contentedness as he observed the beautiful nature of his country.

He lifted his arm in front of him, tracing the birds' flight and the flow of the leaves with his puny finger, entranced by it all. He loved watching the fluff of clouds idle by in the scenery, slowing cruising along the never-ending paint of blue that was the sky.

The corner of his lips stretched upward, his smile growing into a full out, white-toothed grin once he noticed the black silhouette in the distant tree soar into the sky.

That majestic and young bald eagle, the one he had always looked for whenever he came here, on his place atop the boulder, overlooking the prairie around him.

Little America had felt giddy the past week, his excitement surging exponentially as each day passed, waiting for that day. The day he would, once again, be able to hear stories of adventures at sea, of pirates and privateers, of wars and glory. The breeze brushed through his sun-kissed, blonde hair, bright due to his young age. The short, stubborn cowlick fluttered at its tip, blowing with the zephyr.

A letter from England arrived last week, informing the little boy of the former's visit in a month.

And that would be in two weeks.

Young America enjoyed England's presence; he learned of so many things he'd never imagined before, heard of so many ideas that he never knew was possible. Before England and France came, he only knew of wandering the lands, working with nature, and living as the wind guided him.

America had no problem being by himself; he never truly was alone. The animals kept him company while the plants gave him shelter. He loved being out in the lands, out in the prairies.

Pushing himself off the boulder with his soft arms, he jumped into the tall grass and ran. He inhaled a deep breath of his favorite fresh grass fragrance, laughter bubbling out from his lips as his little legs carried him away.

The two older men had come not too long ago, bringing with him curious objects, people, and customs. America still wondered why all the frills and elaborate designs of the clothes were necessary.

At the time, he didn't realize the two had been trying to win his affection, what with the goods they brought and the attention they gave. In the beginning they visited rather frequently, every time with more people, supplies, and gifts.

That one time, in a last desperate attempt, they both offered their last resort. France lured America with promises of culture and delicacies, and America did not understand. Why would he want any of that, when he didn't even know what they were, what those words meant?

England had tried, to America's horror, to perform some terrifying ritual. Behind his tears, the boy noticed the perplexed expression in those dark green eyes, noticed something in them that he didn't quite understand.

That man, England, Arthur, _him; _there was something more about him, something America wanted to know. He wanted to find out what exactly made that man so intriguing.

Or maybe it was just because Little America hadn't seen nearly enough of the world yet. Maybe that was why England captivated him with stories of battles, of worlds he hadn't seen before, of games he, at that time, didn't know were malice intentions shrouded in apparent munificence.

He recognized the familiar river, the constant sound of rushing water, and he knew he was nearing the English settlements. They hadn't explored that far into the lands yet; not where America had been, in the seemingly continuous expanse of the prairies.

America slowed his stubby legs, coming to a casual walk as he entered the town. It was bustling with people; not that there were many, but enough that the area was noisy with work. Men pulled their horses through, women hung the laundry, children chased after kicked rocks. No one paid America any heed as he passed through, though he was watching every action with a curious and keen eye, his head turning at every fluctuation of sound, his face lighted up in delighted eagerness.

Once he began to grow bored at the repetitiveness of the townspeople, Little America quickened his pace. Maybe he'd be able to reach the ports before England arrived.

"Alfred!"

The little boy turned at the call of his name.

"Where are you rushing to, lad?"

Alfred remembered the man. He was the one who taught him how to care for cows properly. That was surely a fun experience.

He walked up to the middle-aged man, who was leaning against the stable, both with grins on their faces.

"I must get to Boston, sir! A friend of mine is arriving in two weeks." America continued smiling.

"Boston! Did you say Boston? Why, how would you travel so far by yourself?" The elder man looked incredulous. The boy didn't know what he was talking about.

Little America's smile did not falter, although his forehead creased slightly and his eyes reflected some confusion. "By feet, sir." How else would he travel?

The man was rendered speechless, his mouth slightly ajar to speak, but he uttered no word, until he finally regained his senses and exclaimed, "By Heavens, no! You'll not live to see another ray of the sun sooner than you'll breathe your next breath!"

America's face dropped into a small pout. Why, he had done it before, years ago.

"You're still considering it, aren't you, lad?"

America's lips pressed into a thin line, and he avoided eye contact, staring to the side at the dirt floor.

"I still have no idea where you came from, but damned would I be if-"

He stopped abruptly and called behind him at the shout of his name, answering with, "I'm here! What do you need?"

A woman's voice shouted again, "Quit your idling and come along to give me a hand!"

America had taken the time to slip away, silently sliding to the side before sprinting down the road and into the forests again.

When the man turned around to persuade America again, the little boy had disappeared. The man sighed, shaking his head in defeat. That boy was a delight, and respectful, but dear _God_, was he intransigent.

America ran on, relishing the fresh scent of nature around him, hearing the birds flutter and squirrels scurry away from him.

Oh, was he elated!

Finally, he'd have company, someone who he can tell everything to after years bereft of such. Running around the lands, living with nature, with the native tribes, and occasionally with the townspeople, America couldn't say he disliked that type of lifestyle; rather, he loved it.

But, the contrast England brought excited America. He knew so much more than him, taught him so many new things. Maybe he understood America's life; maybe he'd understand everything America cherished-his lands, the people, the natural life.

If he could get to Boston soon, he'd see England. How long had it been since his last visit?

Sixteen years ago...this time was the longest interval England had ever been away.

When he'd first arrived on these lands, he never left for long. America had seen him arguing with France, both on very high tensions at first, until France visited him less and less.

England had always been there, making sure France was no where nearby, had always asked America about what he had done in England's absence.

Once France stopped coming nearly as much, however, England seemed to relax-because of what, Little America did not know, and stopped visiting as frequently, too.

America didn't mind. He'd lived long enough without them. But knowing that he'd see England soon made his stomach knot in anticipation. It was fun being around him.

America _did _wonder, though, about what delayed England so long. The longest he had ever been away since meeting America was five years, and now it had stretched to sixteen...

America made a small mental note to ask England when he saw him.

Oh, when he would see him! America pumped his little legs faster, beginning to feel the fatigue starting. He knew he'd be able to continue for a while more; it was fine.

But England! He'd see him soon, so soon. America's lips broke into a wide grin, ecstatic at the thought.

Two weeks, just two more weeks.

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_1637_.

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* * *

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_To be continued..._


	2. Boston, 1637

May 13, 2012

**Letting You Go; Letting Me Leave **

_...only to stumble back into your life again, and you in mine..._

**Chapter 1  
**

* * *

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_Boston, 1637._

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The sound of sea water splashing against the docks created an almost hypnotic sensation, what with its rhythmic motions and slight alterations each time.

The sun had not yet risen, as the seagulls were just beginning to wake and call in the sky. The odd hour of transition between night and morning was scenes of men yawning as they lowered the plank on the side of the ship, carrying crates to and from the dock. A few young apprentices dragged their feet out, stepping into the chilly air to open the shops, preparing for the day. Some carried empty buckets for to pull water, others hurried back at the shouts of the woman of the household.

Smoke rose out from houses as women started fires for breakfast meals. The buildings with heavier smoke made obvious which was a bakery, which was a blacksmith, and so on.

Standing near the docks, by the anchored four cargo ships, were two men conversed in lowered voices, aware of the early hour. The taller, younger man with the slightly disheveled hair under his dark tall hat, with the elegant curves and feather plumes, stood with poise, speaking in a terse manner, wanting only to finish with his business and settle in his house to sleep.

Little America rubbed sleep from his eyes as he waddled down the street, noticing the man further down, speaking with the other as people moved around them.

A smile lit up his face as he recognized the man, his pace quickening in his steps.

"Yes, yes." It was muffled by other noises, but that was England's accent and voice. He sounded tired.

As America approached, he heard snippets of what was being said, not really paying attention. Something about spices...goods...India...all trade stuff. America didn't know much about that; it was all so confusing.

England didn't notice America even as he came closer, until the little boy bumped against his leg and wrapped his arms around the leather boots England was wearing.

"Welcwum back, Arthwer," America mumbled happily, exhausted and sleepy from his journey and wait for England. He still couldn't pronounce the latter's name correctly from time to time, especially in his current state and with a side of his mouth pressed against England's thigh.

England looked down in surprise, and the man he had been talking to followed his gaze, the both of them going silent at the unexpected appearance of the blonde boy.

"Am...Alfred? Lad, why are you here?"

America only twisted his head to look up, his chin still pressing against England's leg.

"To welcome you bwack-ow!"

"Alfred?" England's voice raised in pitch, his thick eyebrows scrunching together in worry. His brain finally caught up with his eyes as he leaned down and hurriedly pried America away to look at him more clearly. Boy, he had grown since the last time he'd visited.

"Sir, is he all right?"

"Ah, yes," England looked up at the man before immediately turning back at America. "Yes, he should be."

With England looking at him, Little America was somehow able to smile and wince at the same time. "Sworry, I...I bit my cheek." He leaned into England's large palm that went up to his face.

Forehead slightly creased, America watched as England seemed to think through what he wanted to say. When America couldn't wait any longer, when his jaw was already beginning to loosen to ask his question, England sighed, his eyelids falling closed.

He set his palms on his knees and stood up, brushing himself off along the way. "All right," he said half to himself, half to address the man, and straightened.

"I must bring this lad home before he somehow murders himself with his clumsiness. I do presume that our business has been settled, if I am not mistaken. Sir, if you do not mind, please send a messenger for me if any issue arises."

The man thought it over, and nodded, fumbling with the stack of papers in his hands. "Yes, I will do that, sir."

"Thank you, but I must take my leave." England gave a curt bow, returned by the businessman, and turned his attention to America as the man walked away to deal with the other merchant ships.

"Now, America, lad, are you all right?" He kneeled down, his arm resting on the sword hung at his side, his gun at his other.

America nodded, not saying anything until England began to stand back up. He reached out and grabbed his breeches, making England stop midway in an unusual position of half-standing and half-kneeling.

"Eng-England, I'm tired..."

England took America's hand in his, enabling himself to stand and look down at the boy. "We will head home right now. You can sleep then, hm?"

America stared in England's eyes, finally dropping his head and looking straight ahead before he gave his reply in a small nod. England smiled tiredly, ruffling America's hair briefly before leading him down the road towards the house England had built for America and him.

* * *

"America," England said, as he trailed a finger across the layer of dust on the dining table, "Why is there so much dust in this house?"

America gave no reply, and England turned to look him in the eye. The boy was looking to the side. "I...forgot to clean it."

England raised an eyebrow.

"Forgot?"

England could see America shrink further into his small body.

"I...I don't like being here alone. I went outside."

America could feel England's strong and leveled gaze boring into his side.

"Outside?" the Englishman asked, more like a statement for America to go on.

The little boy nervously pulled at the bottom of his long shirt. "Outside...with..." He lifted his head, his blues eyes hesitant. "I went to live back out there..."

England stared, not liking America's confirmation of his suspicions. He said nothing more, opting to find a rag to clean the place. He started with the kitchen, as it was impertinent if they wanted any dinner. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, half in anger and half in contemplation. What was he doing wrong? What about his customs and traditions did America find fault with? Surely, England was just trying to make his life better. He was teaching him culture, society, and all these things his people had that America didn't before England came. Why, then, was America so difficult?

Soon, a small hand appeared at his side, also holding a rag to help wipe off the counter and table. Seeing the boy at his side, England wondered why America was such a contradictory little boy.

"I didn't mean to..."

"America," England sighed out. He dropped his rag and motioned for the boy. "Tell me." He looked straight into Little America's round, blue eyes. "What about this lifestyle do you not like?" England paused and motioned lightly with his hand. "What about this house do you not enjoy?"

America fiddled with the hem of his shirt nervously, not knowing how, really, to answer that. He only wanted to explore, to live closer to his people and his land, but why did England's questions make him feel so guilty? Why did England seem to act so disapproving when America wanted to go out into the wild and be immersed in nature? Why did England's lifestyle so full of rules and regulations, every bit terse and prim and proper?

He had no answer, not for himself, nor for England. America didn't mean to disappoint England; he didn't mean to disobey him. But he also didn't understand why what he did was so wrong, so seemingly unacceptable.

England let out a soft sigh, closing his eyes as he pressed his fingers to his face. Little America released his lower lip, the one he had apparently been biting on, and peeked up hesitantly.

"No, never mind, America." England dropped his hand back to his side, and tiredly looked down at America. Only then did he notice the stains and dirt marks on the boy's clothes and on the side of his childish face. A lot of it looked fresh.

He bent down, those blue eyes following him, and brought a hand to Little America's face. That..._had _to be a cut. England ran his thumb over it lightly, with a grimace from the boy.

"How'd this happen?" he asked as he inspected America, carefully glancing at the boy's body to make sure he wasn't further hurt.

Little America tilted his head into England's large palm, a contented smile on his face. "I tripped on the way to see you, but I'm okay."

England was at a loss for words. Who had ever been this excited to see him? He merely made the decision to come because he wanted to make sure the reports were correct, that everything was going fine here. America was a growing colony, but he handled it well, and England saw no need to check up on him as much anymore. India, on the other hand...

England's attention snapped back to the boy in front of him when noticed him watching his face. "Yes, America?"

"N-nothing."

England saw that he had something to say, but didn't know how to start. To make it easier for the young boy, England led the conversation. "Well, then, how did you get here?"

America's face turned to that of relief. "I ran!"

"Really, now? From where?"

England saw the shock in those light blue eyes as they shifted away.

Little America stumbled on his words and didn't know what to say. England didn't know about those parts of the land yet, not really. He'd surely be mad if...

"From Virginia," America finally said, and England didn't truly believe him. He'll let it slide.

Still, "That's a long distance to go, lad."

America smiled. "I was excited to see you!"

England swore the he would never get used to the frankness and simplicity of this boy.

He sighed, unknowingly making America wonder if he did something wrong again, if he was not what England wanted.

"Okay then, lad, let's get you cleaned up before dinner and started with your studies. I presume you haven't done much of either while I was away?"

America shuffled his feet. "W-well...at first, I did...but then, I just, didn't. Don't be mad, England!" America rushed the last part out.

"No, I won't be mad. Now go," he said, ruffling America's hair. "Wash yourself off, and then let me bandage your cuts."

America beamed, and squeaked out an "Okay!" before running to the bath.

A ghost of a smile appeared on England's lips, before he turned around and began his cleaning.

As America finished his bath, England gave him new clothing to change into and addressed his wounds from running around outside too much. Though young, the boy had already given himself multiple scars across his body due to twigs, skirmishes with the animals, and who knows what else. After America was bandaged, and after England had given him a light scolding, America was sent up to his room for his studies, which he had neglected. Calligraphy, manners of high society, trading. He had to know everything in order to survive in the human society and to prosper as a colony. He must know how to take care of himself, so as not to burden England.

Hours passed, and America grew extremely bored of reading and writing and all that stuff, cooped up in his room. When he heard England call for him, he immediately dropped his feather pen, ruining the sheet of paper he had been using, and whipped open his door.

"America! Supper's ready!"

The boy bounded down the stairs from his room, delighted to get away from the studies England required he do, and delighted to have a meal with England again.

The tables and furniture had finally been wiped and polished again, after England's fervent cleaning and America's trying to help.

Once America was at the dinner table, England was setting down the last of the utensils. America didn't realize that his reaction to the charred pieces of what was once edible was out of the norm. His face lit up at England's abhorrent cooking, not knowing that he should actually be repulsed.

He was just happy that England seemed so pleased when he ate all of his cooking. Whatever it took to make England smile, Little America determined he would do it. So even though the food tasted funny, and even if the food made his tongue dry and rough.

"Is this what people call 'delicious'?" he asked, smiling at England's happiness.

Little did he know how big of a deal that short question was.

* * *

America swung his legs back and forth unconsciously, in a slight repetitive motion, as he sat on the rock facing the tree across from him, where a boy of his same age sat huddled by the trunk.

"Ah..." Canada began, his voice soft and gentle. He looked at the young nation who resembled him much in appearance, but the latter had his eyes turned towards the sky. "Ah-...America," he repeated, trying to raise his voice, only succeeding a small fraction.

Little America kept his eyes on the sky, as if he was focused on something up there, in the clouds and in the wind. Canada didn't know if his spitting image had heard him, or simply chose to ignore him, when America turned his head forward to give Canada his attention.

"Canada," America began, a hint of uncertainty in his usually energetic voice. "Do you think England hates me?"

The grim seriousness in those eyes was surprising to violet eyes that were used to its bright, eager shine. The softer spoken of the two remained silent, having unexpected such a question.

"Why...would you think that?"

America shifted his gaze again, turning his head to look at something to the side. His palms pressed into the rough surface of the edged rock. He bit his lip, trying to control his voice and to form his words. He really didn't know why he felt this way, either.

England had arrived a few weeks ago already, and Little America couldn't help but sense a feeling of uneasiness around him. Or maybe he was just imagining it.

"I don't know..." America mumbled. "But I haven't done those things he's always telling me to do." He played with the hem of his shirt, still avoiding Canada's eyes. "It's hard, Canada! I love running out here, and I love counting the stars at night! Don't you?" His eyes locked with Canada's, looking, pleading, imploring an unsaid desire for confirmation.

Confirmation that he wasn't a bad to want his usual life, that he wasn't wrong to feel this way, that he wasn't hated by England.

"Yes," Canada finally answered, dropping his gaze down to his feet in front of him. "I love it out here, too."

A smile graced America's petite lips, relief showing through his features.

"The stars, the trees, the birds, they're all beautiful," Canada mumbled, but America understood.

"Right? Racing the deer, watching the bunnies, you know what this is? It's freedom!" Little America's eyes shone and twinkled in his area beneath the sunlight. He threw his arms out, gesticulating excitedly, his mind focused only on the beauty of their lands. "Canada! You know, too! Sleeping out here, climbing the trees!" He let in a big gasp. "And the eagles! They're the most beautiful of all! Soaring through the sky, not letting anything stop them. I want to be like them," America trailed off, not knowing why he felt a modicum of guilt.

Canada looked at the ground, watching the tip of his own foot draw random lines into the dirt. He sensed the sudden drop in energy from the one across from him. "Then, what about England?"

With dejected eyes, in stark contrast to the ecstasy they reflected earlier, America dropped his eyes to the floor, one leg thumping against the rock as the other stayed still. "Why doesn't England see that?" He met Canada's eyes. "Why..." America trailed off. "He must be so disappointed in me, Canada. He doesn't like me..."

The silence before Canada's response made America feel worse, though he should have known that it was simply what Canada always did, taking some time to gather his thoughts and words before speaking. "How can he not like you? If he didn't, he wouldn't come visit."

America pondered that, and nodded slowly after a few seconds. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right." They lapsed into silence again, until America said, "But he's leaving again in a week."

Canada stood up, brushed himself off. America watched with curiosity as the quiet boy walked over to him, into the sunlight he seemed to avoid. He watched as he climbed up the rock and sat beside him, seeming to shrink slightly from the sun as its bright rays shone down upon the two. Canada lifted his hand and patted America's shoulder, a gesture America would soon grow fond of, and said, "He has work to do, America." They both looked up as the birds flew from the tree. "He'll be back; he doesn't hate you."

And all America could do was believe in him, as they watched the birds soar through the sky and disappear.

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_Boston, 1637._

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_A/N: If you have questions about where exactly this story is going, feel free to PM me or write it in a review, and I'll be happy to let you in on what I'm trying to do with this. If not, then I hope you enjoyed my story so far, and that it didn't bore you out of your mind. Reviews are always appreciated, as they motivate me to write, and more likely than not, they inspire me as to what else to add to my story. Thank you for reading! ;)_


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